The Inspector of the Opera
by KnightMusic
Summary: A meeting that never was, in a timeline that could not have existed, Erik encounters an intrepid young police officer named Javert.
1. First encounter

**The Inspector of the Opera**   
by KnightMusic

**Part 1**

_Disclamer: The Phantom of the Opera is not mine, neither character nor story. Nor can I claim Javert. He belongs to Victor Hugo. But I promise that neither shall come to any harm under my care, and shall be put back when I'm done with them. I'm certainly not making any money off this, so copyright infringement is not intended._

The floor of the catwalk creaked for what seemed the twentieth time, and Javert reflected that it probably was not a good idea to be up there. He leaned over to see exactly how far down to the ground it was, and concluded that it was quite a long way by the extraordinary amount of time it took his hat to contact the ground once it took its leave of his head. But at this point, he had no idea how he would go about doing that. The stairs he had climbed to this point on had collapsed shortly after he had left them, and besides, he was determined to find this 'Phantom' character, since his commanding officer seemed more interested in making passes at all the pretty chorus girls. If he did successfully locate this masked perpetrator, it would almost certainly mean the end to the condescending manner with which he was treated on the force, as well as a promotion. 

'One step closer to Inspector,' he thought to himself, as he stepped off into a darker corner of the third cellar. 'Or perhaps,' he thought again, 'not.' He now had no clue as to get back to where he had started, but continued to press ahead. Pausing in an attempt to get his bearings, he totally failed to notice the looming shadows that played on the wall behind various set pieces. Had he noticed them, he would never have turned his back to them. 

He moved closer to inspect on of the set pieces, and his attention was drawn to a small opening just beyond it. Pushing carefully on the rock wall, he was surprised to find it giving way slightly. Redoubling his efforts, he soon had an opening big enough for him to fit through. Tucking his nightstick under his arm, he cautiously stepped through the opening and into a largish room, the existence of which no one would have been able to guess at if not for the tell-tale opening in the rock. 

The room was big enough for him to stand up in and move around easily in, but was extremely dark. In fact, he almost fell through the small trap door before he noticed it. Looking down, he saw and opening almost darker than the room he was now in. The thought of jumping in passed briefly through his mind, but was rapidly discounted. Even _he_ knew better than to blindly plunge into the unknown. Instead, he turned back to the door, vowing to return later with a light, only to see it slide slowly shut. In that instant, he was plunged into total darkness, and his every sense was suddenly blinded. 

Javert was not given much time to ponder over his rather limited choices, as a sudden pressure around his neck hauled him backward of balance. One hand reached up and felt a thin rope around his neck, slowly tightening itself around him. His other hand tightened around the nightstick under his arm, and with a swift, deft motion, he turned to face his assailant, nightstick raised to intercept the rope. As soon as it did, he wrenched his arm down, twisting it slightly, and catching the holder of the rope so completely off guard, that it was torn from the hand, and Javert was given the opportunity to pin the man up against the wall, his nightstick pressed firmly across the other's chest. 

Much to Javert's surprise, and considerable vexation, the strange man began laughing maniacally. "Well done, Monsieur!" the man said, once his laughter had died down. "I rarely have the opportunity to meet one as skilled as you are." The man paused for a moment, and regarded the nightstick pressed across his chest. 

"You need not exert the effort to keep me pinned here. I assure you, I could free myself any moment I chose," he waved a hand slightly in Javert's direction. "And you needn't worry about your life, I am not about to jeopardize that again at this time." 

Slowly, carefully, Javert lowered his nightstick, tucking it back into it's resting place under his arm. With his free hand, he removed the lasso from his neck, and, feeling slightly foolish and apprehensive, offered it back to the man before him. The man took the rope, and wound it back up before looking at it for a moment. 

"The Punjab lasso," he said, an almost wistful tone surfacing in his dark, melodious voice. "It has never failed me. Until tonight." He looked up at Javert. "One wonders why you did not die..." He faded out, and turned slightly to produce a small lamp, seemingly out of mid-air and lighting it. 

Javert could not hide the slight smirk as he pulled down the collar of his coat just slightly to reveal the leather stock under, the sole purpose of which was to prevent what the man had just attempted. The man slightly returned his smile and place the lasso under his large velvet cape. Javert took this moment to afford the man a scrutinous once-over. He was approximately Javert's height, although several years older, wearing very expensive opera clothes under his cape, as well as a low-brimmed velvet hat, and, strangest of all, a white mask concealing the right half of his face. If the stories were true, and at this point, Javert was ready to believe they were, he was standing face to face with the notorious Phantom. 

The Phantom stepped slightly away from the wall, making his way to the trap door. "You are undoubtedly the most intelligent young man ever to make his way this far into my lair, what's your name, boy?" 

Despite Javert's dislike of the term the Phantom had used to address him, he nevertheless respected the man as a gentleman, and felt he should answer him. "My name is Javert. Of the police." 

The Phantom tensed momentarily, as if gripped with a bad memory. "An unfortunate name," he muttered, and looking Javert in the face, said, "The first man I ever killed was named Javert. You may call me Erik." 

Javert raised his chin indignantly. "That neither impresses nor frightens me," he responded. 

Erik smiled at him. "It should, but I admire your courage. He was a gypsy, like yourself." He then turned his attention to the small trap-door. 

Javert moved across the room quickly and laid his large hand on Erik's collar, pulling his face close. "How do you know that?" he hissed. Again, Erik laughed, and very easily removed Javert's hand. "Little things about you, boy, the color of your skin, your hair, the way you move, just the small things. I spent much of my early life with gypsies, you know," his voice hardened, and he turned away suddenly, as if the memory caused him pain. 

Erik looked again at the trap door at his feet. "I'll go first, then you hand down the lantern and follow," he said. Javert remained rooted to the spot, and regarded Erik with the same watchful curiosity he always used when he felt his life might be in danger. 

Javert folded his arms across his chest "You'll excuse me, if I don't trust you." Erik simply shrugged. 

"Feel free to stay up here if that pleases you, it matters not to me," he disappeared into the hole, and a moment later there came the sound of counter-weights being released, and Erik re-appeared. "But I assure you, you will not discover the exit. You will be much more comfortable in my home." 

Javert turned this last thought over in his mind. 'If he wished to kill me, staying up here certainly wouldn't stop him,' he mused. And it _was_ getting rather cold. Wondering if he was doing something he would regret, he cautiously jumped down into the hole. 

The jump down was not as bad as Javert had originally thought, and, once down, he found himself in a small, mirrored, hexagonal chamber. At one end, there stood a large tree. At the other, an opening into which Erik was disappearing. 

Javert poked his head cautiously into a well lit smallish room. Erik Had his back to him, and was working with a series of wires and switches. Javert heard a soft 'click' and the door to the hexagonal chamber closed. 

Erik turned to Javert and flashed an eerily reassuring smile at him. "Welcome to my home Javert," this elicited a slight raise of an eyebrow from Javert. It was the first time he could remember Erik using his name. "I dare say, you are the first person ever to make it this far." 

Javert turned slightly to admire the room he had been brought into. It contained a large fireplace on one side, decorated with various odds and ends, a few chairs, a couch, and two doors. One leading to the room he had just left, and the other leading further into Erik's home. Javert glanced over his shoulder, only to find Erik, no longer in the room. 

He walked over to the door, but found it locked. The madman had imprisoned him in this room! For a moment, Javert simply stood there, seething. Finally, rational thinking gripped him, and he began searching the room for a possible exit. He paused briefly over the door to the mirrored room, but that showed him nothing. After making a few more passes over the room, his attention was drawn to the small panel of switches that Erik had been tampering with. His knowledge of such things was rather limited, and as a result, he was able to decipher much about it. 

A slight tap on his shoulder made him whirl around. Erik was standing behind him, a second lantern in his hand. He offered the lantern to Javert who was still to stunned to speak. Finally, he found his voice, "You locked me in here," he said, rather weakly. 

"Of course I did," Erik said, reasonably, "I had to re-enforce the exits from my home. I could not take the chance that you might find your way out of here." 

Javert's chin raised indignantly, "And why not?" he asked. 

"Don't take me for a fool," Erik admonished, "You are a loyal police officer. You would have my home flooded with your little friends. Now, if you come with me, I will show you around a little." 

Javert was unable to speak for a moment. Erik seemed almost to laugh. "You needn't worry about your life. I have no intention of killing you. Not tonight at least. Tomorrow, ah, well who can say. I like you, boy, you are not nearly as droll as the other officers who managed to stumble down here." 

"What happened to them?" Javert asked quietly. 

"What do you think happened to them?" Erik returned. "They removed their leather stocks simply because they were uncomfortable." Javert nodded slightly. "You, on the other hand, have clearly shown your superiority to these others, and you needn't worry about wearing this," he said, producing Javert's leather stock in his hand. Javert's eyes widened. He had not even felt Erik touch him. Clearly, his life was more in Erik's hands than he had fist appeared. But somehow, the fact that Erik had reveled this skill to him seemed to reassure Javert of his safety. 

Erik spread one arm out, gesturing for Javert to accompany him out the door. 


	2. Testing the waters

**The Inspector of the Opera**   
by KnightMusic

**Part 2**

_Disclamer: The Phantom of the Opera is not mine, neither character nor story. Nor can I claim Javert. He belongs to Victor Hugo. But I promise that neither shall come to any harm under my care, and shall be put back when I'm done with them. I'm certainly not making any money off this, so copyright infringement is not intended._

"And this is my guest room," Erik concluded, waving at an intricately carved wall. Javert's puzzlement must have been as transparent as it felt, and it elicited a slight laugh from Erik. "Watch," he said, and touched a carving, causing the wall to swing away, revealing a plainly furnished bedroom. Javert arched his eyebrows appraisingly. "You will be staying in here. Heaven knows why I built it, I never expected to have guests," Erik shrugged slightly, and gestured for Javert to enter. "I will be around if you need me, goodnight." And with that, he turned and was gone, leaving Javert alone in the room. 

For a moment, he simply stood by the door, listening. Erik's footsteps grew gradually fainter, and finally disappeared. Hesitantly, he placed his hand on the handle of the door. Unaware of the fact that he was holding his breath, he pressed his weight against the door, and was surprised to find it open. 

He stood there, for a moment simply numbed from this new circumstance. Something inside him yelled for him to move forward, seize this chance and escape, but yet his legs would not obey him. Instead, he drew back into the room, allowing the door to close with a slight click. 

This was unexpected, and something he was not at all prepared to deal with it. He _couldn't_ stay here, that much was certain. But neither could he bring himself to betray this man. The official report classified him as a deranged lunatic; a maniacal murderer. 'But if that was true,' Javert mused, 'why was he standing here in this room, this unlocked room no less, instead of lying dead in that cellar? 

He was at a loss as to a course of action to take. It was clear what his duty expected of him, but he could neither bring himself to do it, nor bring himself to ignore it. 

A thought occurred to him at that moment. Erik _knew_ the door was unlocked, that much was obvious. Javert might have been young, but he had the instincts and intuition of a man twice his age. 

"So," he thought aloud, as he began to purposefully pace the length of the room, "if he knows the door is unlocked, that means he knows that I could discover that and escape. He also knows that if I _did_ escape, it would be my duty to turn him in." 

Javert's eye caught himself in the mirror and he moved in front of it to speak to his reflection. "But, unless for some reason he _wishes_ to be captured, he would not allow that to happen. Therefore," he stated firmly, as if coming to some profound conclusion, "He must know something about his home that would make my escape impossible, or would kill me in the process." 

Obviously, if he was to be of any help to the force, getting himself killed would not be an advantage. "So," Javert moved back from the mirror, a resolute expression on his face. "I stay here until the right moment presents itself." With that decided, he began to prepare for bed. 

He could have sworn he heard a noise at that moment, like the rustling of silk, but met only darkness when he looked into the hallway. 

Had he looked a moment earlier, he _might_ have seen the dark shape slip off in the shadows. He _might_ have heard that velvety voice whisper, "Bravo boy, you've passed the first test." 

He might have, but he didn't. 


	3. Life's Lessons

**The Inspector of the Opera**   
by KnightMusic

**Part 3**

_Disclamer: The Phantom of the Opera is not mine, neither character nor story. Nor can I claim Javert. He belongs to Victor Hugo. But I promise that neither shall come to any harm under my care, and shall be put back when I'm done with them. I'm certainly not making any money off this, so copyright infringement is not intended._

It had taken longer than normal for the Opera house to clear out after the performance. Wealthy patrons had, of course, stayed around to hob-nob with the managers and singers. But that was to be expected. This had been, after all, the gala opening of the newest production. But now, even the singers had retired to their respective quarters, and only the far off tittering of a few stray ballet girls could be heard. 

Javert stepped slowly out onto the stage, his keen eyes taking in every available detail of the Opera. Ornate sculptures and curtains adorned the walls on every side of him, and cast a thousand shadows that flickered in the candlelight of the chandelier. 'But which one,' he wondered as he stood there, 'is watching me watching it?' 

Stepping forward, he lowered himself to one knee and peered down into the orchestra pit. The stands and chairs stood there, as they had for the performance, and a stray piece of music littered the floor. This, at least, was one place that offered no hope of concealment. Straightening himself, he prepared to move to the side to inspect the wings, but stopped when three haunting notes soared softly from the pit. 

He whirled around sharply and returned to the edge of the pit in two long strides. Again, he looked down, and again his eyes met only emptiness. He stood there for a moment, senses alert, ready for the slightest sound to lead him to the source of the phantom violin. For five minutes, he stood there, frozen and waiting for anything. Finally, he shook his head and headed back off towards the wings. 

He had not gone two paces before a slightly louder reprise of the melody lifted itself up to the ceiling and reverberated there, hanging in the air even after the sound had ceased. Javert turned again and walked back to the pit, faster than before. This time, he did not wait at the top, but lowered himself slowly down into it and began to examine the enclosure in full. 

He did not have long to wait. Upon his arrival in the pit, the violin broke forth. This time not only with the simple three note melody, but with a haunting soulful sonata that rose to heights only dreamed of by eagles. 

Javert stood there, aware of nothing but the music of this invisible soloist. As the violin glided effortlessly from one note to the next, he stood there, awed. Javert was not a man well educated in the arts, but for some reason, this experience had robbed him of all thoughts, all motivations, and all desires save one; to hear this music. Disembodied as this whole ordeal was leaving him, he became aware of the hairs at the back of his neck raising slightly. Whether this was due to the violin's aria or the thought of the ghost who must be playing it, he was never sure. 

Javert suddenly found his eyelids growing heavy, and though he fought against it the room began to spin around him. 'Strange,' he thought as he sank into oblivion, 'the music keeps getting louder...' 

And then he was wide awake again, staring not at the walls of the Opera house, but at an intricately carved ceiling. He frowned at the ceiling, puzzlement and disorientation washing over him as he tried to recall where he was. Slowly, he sat up and took in the room, and equally slowly he began to piece together his memory. 

Yes, he _was_ in the Opera house, but down below, in the lair of the Phantom. Erik, yes, that was his name. This infamous murderer had a name. Although the rest of his identity was still a secret. 

A slight sound caught his attention, and he tried to turn to face its source. That proved futile, as it emanated from all sides of the room, as if the walls themselves were causing it. 

Still and silent as the carved angels that greeted the Opera patrons at the entrance, he sat there; waiting, hardly breathing as the sound grew in volume. A violin. That was what it was. Someone, somewhere was playing a violin. For a moment, he wondered if he was hearing rehearsals from the orchestra above before a startling realization crept into his mind. He _knew_ this music. It was the song that so recently had held him captive in his dream. And this time, he knew who was playing it, and what that meant. Erik was awake. 

Within moments, Javert had dressed himself and was out in the corridor following the sound of the violin. Although studying decor was not what he had intended to do as he set out, he could not help but notice it and be puzzled by it. Dark, leering demons and gargoyles turned their black, lifeless eyes to stare at him, while at the same time, angels and other heavenly deities smiled from the corners of the ceiling. "What life is this?" he wondered aloud as he slowly moved down the hallway, "to be forever crossing the threshold of heaven and hell, to exist in both, yet live in neither?" The only answer he received was the ever louder song of the violin. 

Finally, he reached a large carved door. It was already slightly ajar, and required only the slightest push to open. The hinges were well oiled and made no sound as he entered. Stealthily as a cat, he moved into the room. Erik was indeed there, his back to the door, and thoroughly engrossed in his music. 

Despite Javert's almost soundless steps, Erik broke off the song he was playing and turned to face him. "Ah good, so you didn't run off to your little gendarme friends," he said, setting his violin down on a nearby chair. "I must say I'm glad you didn't Javert, it would have been a shame if I had been forced to kill you." 

Javert swallowed. No, he decided, he would never be able to grow accustomed to Erik's mannerisms. Particularly his habit of casually describing Javert's death. He shook his head slightly, trying to remove the uncomfortable feeling this conversation had caused. 

"Would you care for breakfast?" Erik asked, his manner suddenly quite amiable. Without waiting for a response, he ushered Javert into an elegant dining room that contained an elaborately set table. Javert regarded Erik for a moment. Erik merely laughed. 

"You worry far too much boy," he said, pushing Javert down into a chair, "You are my guest. I've never had a guest before, but I do not believe I am in the habit of killing them." 

Javert looked at the food, suddenly aware that he _was_ in fact very hungry, and then back up at Erik who made a dismissing gesture. "I have eaten," he said simply, and with that, he exited the room, his black cape billowing out behind him. 

* * *

Later that morning, after Javert had finished breakfast, he found himself exploring Erik's realm. He had told himself, as he began, that he was looking for a way out of this place, but as he was continuously unable to find anything, he began to take an interest in the details of Erik's home. 

Grimacing as he passed yet another smiling skeleton woven into a tapestry, he opened a door and found a small library. He let his gaze rove for a moment over the spines of the books, but was rapidly disinterested. Instead, his eye was drawn to a small portrait contained in an equally small silver frame. He walked over to the mantle where it rested and picked it up. It was of a young woman, not much older than Javert, and exceptionally beautiful. 

"My mother," came a voice from behind, causing Javert to jump. Erik appeared next to him a moment later and took the picture from Javert's hand. He laughed softly. "I don't even know why I keep this around. She wouldn't have cared enough to do the same for me." A slight edge was beginning to creep into his voice as he gripped the small picture tighter. 

He laughed again. Not the soft laugh of a moment before, but a savage, rough-edged laugh that sent a chill down Javert's spine. "She hated me," he whispered. His voice had dropped in volume, but still, it took on an almost maniacal ferocity that caught Javert unprepared. 

"She hated me because of this," he said, fingering the mask. "I know that, I'd be a fool not to know. No loving mother shuts their son away in an attic because he is ugly." He looked at Javert, the anger suddenly replaced by pain. 

"Not that hiding me away did any good, oh no. All that did was circulate rumors." His expression hardened again, "If I could find those who had _dared_ to say such things now..." His grip tightened, and the glass in the picture frame began to buckle under his fingers. 

As if he had just become aware of the situation, Javert reached forward and removed the picture from Erik's hand. "I have found," he said, setting the offending portrait back on the mantle, "that some things are better left in the past." 

Erik laughed. Again, it was a different laugh. As intimidating as the last, but hollow. "You have learned, you say? No one has learned life's lessons better than I; there is no better teacher than the hatred and prejudice of this world." 

"They are cruel teachers. But there are better ways to put their lessons to work." 

Erik favored him with only a dismissing snort. "Hate that is taught can only be returned. You above all others should know that. I've seen how your people are treated," he returned. 

That he had struck a chord in Javert was evident by the sudden lift of his chin. "My people and the treatment they endured was one of the things _I_ found better left in the past. Just one of many things that would be better forgotten." 

Erik smiled. "It would seem that we are not that different in some ways boy," he said, turning to leave the room. "But there are some things that cannot be ignored or changed. I can only hope that life would spare you from them as it did not do for me." 


End file.
